Listen, I realize there’s important events happening all over the world at the moment. People being born, people dying; natural disasters, large and small; nations fighting, governing, and signing treaties. I acknowledge the significance of all these life-changing activites.
But we need to talk about my hair.
I’m thisclose to ripping it out and setting it afire upon the altar of cosmetology. And, I should add that I am not averse to gluing it onto a chicken beforehand if it would help.
In November 2003 i had long curly hair. I felt cute and perky and a little ditzy. One day with no warning, I cut off 12 inches of hair and gave it to Locks of Love.
(You’ll have to Google that if you don’t know what it is; I’m composing this post on my iPhone and can’t be bothered to go through all the rigamarole of looking up the link in Wikipedia and adding HTML to link it.)
(Although factoring in how long it took me to type that last sentence, I might as well have taken the time to just do it.)
Anyway, it was short. Like, an inch to two inches long on top and a 1/4″ on the sides and back, depending on if I was getting it cut every four weeks or six. Which, by the by, gets expensive.
I love having short hair. It’s easy. I put a little mousse in it, play with the top for a minute to get it just the right amount of messy-on-purpose, and I’m out the door. It looks professional yet playful. It makes me feel sassy and confident.
Events transpired and conspired.
Everytime Tom looked at pictures of me with my long hair, he remarked on my curls and how much he missed them.
My beloved hair-cutter-gal decided to quit and go back to school and I couldn’t imagine anyone else getting scissors within a two foot radius of my person.
My last haircut was by hair-cutter-gal in her last week in her salon; the second week in August.
I almost sobbed on the way out that day.
My hair and I decided to go into mourning, just a step short of wearing sackcloth and piling on smoldering ashes.
We made a deal. I would let hair grow, and hair would not get in my way.
Hair reneged on the deal like the lying wench she truly is.
Hair staged a full-on mutiny, flipping up and out and in angles only previously achieved by a cirque du soliel performer.
I persevered. I fought back with gel and mousse and headbands and tiny barrettes.
In the best case scenario, Hair reluctantly complied to the smallest extent absolutely necessary. At worst, a beastly temper tantrum reared its ugly head and Hair was beaten back into reluctant, pouty submission.
I am growing weary of the battle. Hair has proven to be a tough and worthy adversary with plenty of fight left.
Tom says he doesn’t mind one way or the other, although I suspect he secretly harbors a preference for long curls.
What say you, Mah Peepull?
Give up and get shorn? To recap; expensive, sassy, professional, with a husband yearning for curls?
Or bravely soldier on? To recap; cute, perky, sexy, ditzy, with a husband happily twirling ringlet curls around his fingers?
Mah Peepull shall be heard!